


Engraved So Deeply In My Veins

by spockandawe



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Conditioning, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Explicit Sexual Content, Masturbation, Other, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Violence, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 13:16:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10514520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spockandawe/pseuds/spockandawe
Summary: When it happens, your first thought isMegatron.Because of course it’s Megatron. Ofcourseit is.You don’t know why, how, what he wants, any of it. Just that it has to behim.When your chest starts burning, you only have time for that first thought. You can’t even manage to face him, defend yourself, any of that. Your legs give out. You fight to brace yourself against a table, because at the very least you’re going to meet him on your feet. But all that happens is you take the table to the floor with you. Megatron is here. Somewhere. He has to be here. You have to be ready. You have to beready.Even if you only run, even if that’s the only thing you try to do, youhave to be ready.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I kept coming back around to the part of MTMTE where Tyrest activates his killswitch, and how when Starscream starts dying, his immediate reaction is that it must be Megatron. I just couldn't leave that detail alone, and now here we are.
> 
> The tags are accurate, so please tread with care. There's past abuse, past _sexual_ abuse, past sexual violence with sexual injuries both referenced and (mildly) occurring, sexual conditioning, abuse that would pretty clearly be ongoing if these people were spending time together, and present actions that arguably qualify as self-harm.
> 
>  
> 
> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/159063058696/engraved-so-deeply-in-my-veins-spockandawe-the)

When it happens, your first thought is _Megatron._

Because of course it’s Megatron. Of _course_ it is.

You don’t know why, how, what he wants, any of it. Just that it has to be _him._

When your chest starts burning, you only have time for that first thought. You can’t even manage to face him, defend yourself, any of that. Your legs give out. You fight to brace yourself against a table, because at the very least you’re going to meet him on your feet. But all that happens is you take the table to the floor with you.

Where is he? Your spark is boiling, it’s melting away. He’s _here,_ you know he is. You fight to keep your head up. You don’t want to look down at yourself and see your chest as a white-hot puddle of slag. Through the haze, you can see Rattrap running. It’s the right decision. Even if you hate him for it.

Megatron is here. Somewhere. He has to be here. You knew it wasn’t going to be this easy to hold him, you _knew._ You have to be ready. You have to be ready. Even if you only run, even if that’s the only thing you try to do, you have to be _ready._

You try as hard as you can to keep your head up, but you lose that fight in moments. And then all you can do is lie there where you fell. Your arm is still awkwardly caught on the table and your wing is digging into the floor, but you can’t move. You _want_ to move, you try. But your joints are melting, your frame is _melting,_ you can’t even think past how it _burns_. Your spark is eating its way out of your chest, it’s killing you, it’s _eating you,_ you can feel it pouring up out of your eyes and mouth.

And you give up. You give up. You don’t care where Megatron is. You don’t know what he wants. You don’t care anymore. The only thing you want is for him to let you offline. It hurts too much, you can’t think past the burning. You just want it to be over. That’s all you want. You just want it to _end._

It— does.

You’re not dead. You think. For a few moments, you aren’t sure. It takes three attempts before you manage to roll onto your back. And your chest hasn’t melted away. It only _feels_ like it has. You have to touch your plating to be sure it’s real. Your frame is spotless. No damage. Not even a scorch mark. You don’t know what you would have preferred. And according to your chronometer, it’s been hardly any time at all. None of this feels real, except for the pain that goes all the way down to your spark.

Though—you feel fluid running down your face. When you touch it, your fingers come away black. You don’t know what that means. You don’t know how Megatron did this. You don’t know _why._ You don’t know why he stopped. You don’t know when he’ll do it again.

So you need to be ready. You don’t know how to stop him. If you can stop him. But you’re not going to let him _toy with you_ like this.

You manage to struggle up to your knees. Just that much is almost enough to make you pass out, so you pause for a moment, until your head stops spinning. Is there a medic you can call? You can’t—you can’t trust any Decepticon medic, or any Autobot medic. You don’t have the neutral medics listed in your neocortex. And have to assume your console, no, your entire _network_ can’t be trusted at this point.

And then you spot the little model of your frame on the floor. It must have fallen when the table went over. One of its wings is snapped in two. You try to set the table upright, but—no, your arms are not supporting that weight right now. You at least nudge the pieces of your model over towards the wall, so they’re out of harm’s way.

Your crown is there too. You leave it. You can’t afford to care about that right now.

It isn’t easy to drag yourself upright. Your legs don’t want to hold you. But if you lean hard on the wall, you can just about manage to stagger over towards your berth. You run down a mental list of weapons you have hidden in here. It isn’t bad, you haven’t been living here long, but you’ve done fairly well for yourself. But nothing that will stop Megatron. Not even close. It would be safer to run— But you can’t trust yourself in the air right now. On foot is even more dangerous. All your options are bad. All of them. You need to find the least bad one.

You fumble your way into the secret compartment with your best gun. And that’s it. That’s all you can manage for now. Your processor is spinning, the room is spinning, and you think you’re about to fall over again. You manage to land mostly on the berth. It’s a little better when you shut down your optics. You push yourself up so that you’re at least sitting on the berth instead of lying there.

It’s easier with your optics off, but you can’t stay like that. It’s not safe. Ha, _none_ of this is safe, nothing is safe. At least this way you’ll be able to see him coming.

But that’s all you can really do, isn’t it. You can’t run. You can’t trust anyone in the city right now. On the planet. You’ll wait for him. You’ll fight. And you’ll lose.

And then you know exactly how things will go, don’t you. It’s only the way things _always_ go. You know what he wants. It’s just a question of how he’ll take it. Is he going to pretend this is something _sweet_ today? Or is he going to use that— whatever it was he used on you. Is he going to use it again, use _you_ at the same time?

But that isn’t the worst of it. No. Your frame knows exactly what comes next. That’s the worst part. The way you’ve been conditioned— _trained—_ to expect this.

So is it better to be ready for Megatron and make this as easy on yourself as you can? Play along. Act the part of his little toy, ignore it when he tells you it’s pathetic how _desperate_ you are for him. Hope you come out the other end intact. Or is it better to fight it as long as you can, risk whatever damage he decides you _deserve,_ refuse to admit that you want _any_ of this?

It doesn’t really matter. Your frame has already made a decision for you.

You haven’t done anything but sit here. You haven’t even been sitting here for long. All you’ve done is wait, gun in hand, keeping watch on the door and windows. But your valve already aches.

You ignore it. It’s only _sensible,_ of course. It’s a delicate piece of anatomy. Goodness only knows what might happen if someone were to shove something large in there without any preparation. Who knows what things they might damage that way. Who knows how many times that would happen before your frame learned to anticipate what’s coming and move to protect itself.

So yes, all very sensible. Such a _comfort._

Lubricant is pooling behind your panel now. Not important. You can’t afford to lose focus. You’d been close, you’d been _so close_ to getting away for good. Megatron is waiting for you to think you’re safe, and that’s when he’ll make his move. But how long is he willing to hold out? Until tonight? Tomorrow? Is he waiting for you to go back to your life before he bursts in to ruin everything? Or is he waiting to attack you again? It began at your spark last time. Focus on your spark.

Door, windows, spark. Plenty to occupy your attention. And planning. You can’t afford to stop making plans either. Your panel pings you, wanting to retract. You dismiss the alert. How can you defend against this? How was it done? You have to assume that if he used it on you once, he’s more than willing to do it a second time. Whether or not he has a reason, you have to assume he’ll do it to you again. But how can you look for defenses without even knowing what it was? Not that you have any scientists—not that you have any _active_ scientists you can trust either. You’re cornered until he makes a move. And you can’t count on making it past his next move.

Your valve is getting harder to ignore. Yes, _yes,_ thank you for your input, so helpful. You’re sure Megatron will be around to _help_ you with that little problem soon enough. So _generous._

Concentrate. While you have time to think, you can’t afford to stop. If you give up, that’s it. He’s won.

Who might be willing to help you? Who could you use? Who could you persuade? Decepticons weary of the war. Tired of Megatron’s leadership. Autobots who have tired of the war, but aren’t prepared to turn to the Decepticons. A mech in one of those groups who’s sympathetic to you ( _ha!_ ). The neutrals might be a safer bet. But they’re so new, you don’t know where you can pressure them most effectively. Blackmail is nearly out of the question, you just don’t know enough of their history. Autobots or Decepticons— Even the Autobots, you can’t discount the possibility that they’ll sell you to Megatron out of pure spite.

Which options are most dangerous? Least? Your valve _aches,_ it’s getting more and more difficult to think to the end of an idea without losing your train of thought. It would probably be least dangerous to steal a ship yourself, if you can just get to the port. Not safe enough. And you’d be sacrificing everything you’ve managed to earn for _yourself_ here. Allies, you need _allies—_ but it’s so hard to think past the increasingly urgent pings from your array.

You buckle just enough to take one hand from your gun and drop it between your legs. Just— Only to press it against your panel. Not to— All you just want some way to relieve the pressure. You want it to _stop._

Touching yourself doesn’t help. _Shocking._ But you can’t manage to pull your hand away. You don’t want it there, but you still can’t do it. Your array _aches._ It’s getting hard to think past how much it aches. This doesn’t matter, it’s all going to stop whenever Megatron finally decides the game is over. You override your panel when it tries to retract. Override it again. Again. You _don’t want this._

It’s pathetic how quickly you give in.

When you surrender and finally let your panel open, it’s intense enough that your optics glitch out for a moment. It’s almost enough to startle you into actually keeping watch again. You _weren’t paying attention,_ it would have been the perfect time to make a move— Nobody is there. And you manage to focus on the room for barely a nanoklik before your attention is dragged back to your valve again. Like you said. Pathetic.

Your valve has already left a puddle of lubricant on your berth. Lovely. Your spike is pressurized, but it doesn’t ache the same way your valve does. It _hurts,_ not having anything inside you. You still sit there for as long as you can, just looking down at yourself. Not touching your valve. Because you _don’t want to._

That lasts for all of moments before you give up and shove two fingers into yourself. It isn’t enough, not nearly enough. You force a third finger into your valve. It’s enough to sting. You can take more, but not without working your way up to it first. And this still isn’t _enough._

You try to add a fourth finger, but—You don’t know if it’s the angle, if it’s just too soon, or if it’s the way your hand is shaking, but you can’t quite manage. But what you have isn’t enough, it’s not nearly enough, this much of a stretch only makes it that much more obvious how insufficient it is.

And you surrender. You let yourself slide down from the berth, and go hard to your knees on the floor. You don’t remember how to balance. Your arm is propped up on the edge of your berth and you lean into it. You still have the gun. It’s in your hand. You still have it. If Megatron comes in now, this—it’s already humiliating enough on its own, it doesn’t matter whether he sees you like this or not. You’ll still notice him coming in, you can try to do something.

But you’re forgetting something. What—? You’re distracted from the thought as you finally manage to force your fourth finger into yourself. You hiss with the pain. But even then, you’re still too _empty._

You need. What do you need. Why did you go down to the floor?

 _Oh._ False spike. There’s a hidden compartment with a false spike. You just need to get it out. Why haven’t you done that yet? It’s so hard to think past your valve. You’re dripping lubricant onto your hand, you can feel it sliding down your thighs. It’s awful. Why haven’t you gotten the spike yet?

 _Hands._ Because you don’t have a free hand. You have— There’s a gun in your hand. Right in front of your face, where your arm is braced against your berth. You have your gun. That’s _important._ You can’t let go of the gun. It’s not enough to stop Megatron. But it’s all you have.

And your other hand is busy with your valve. You do try to pull it out, at first. But the moment your fingers start sliding out of your valve, you make the most pathetic, humiliating noise and collapse forward against your berth.

You’d scream if you could remember how to think past your array. This is _your frame._ It’s _your body._ But this time you can’t even manage to start pulling your hand out of yourself. All you can do is shove it deeper into your valve and work yourself down against your fingers. You can feel the pain from being stretched too wide, too fast. But you can still feel the worse pain of not being filled _enough._

You give up and drop your gun. Your hand is shaking so badly you can barely manage to undo the latch to the secret compartment, but you try to keep an optic on the gun. Get the false spike. Get the gun. As soon as you take care of this, you can pick the gun back up. Just get the spike first.

When your hand finally closes around the false spike, your array sends a pulse of _need_ through you. It’s so hard to think. To ventilate. Any of it. When you look down, you can barely get your optics to focus. But you can see the size of the spike, and you’ve never needed anything as badly in your life as you need to be _filled,_ right now, right here. You can think just far enough to remember _why_ your frame is so desperate for this. But it isn’t enough to stop you, you couldn’t hold yourself back now if you tried.

You’re so unsteady that you barely can manage to even set the false spike on the floor and position yourself above it. The base is wide enough to keep it standing on its own. But you can’t remember how to move, how to balance, you can’t process anything except the way your array aches. You only manage to pull your fingers out of yourself by focusing on the spike, you’re only doing this so you can get the spike, that’s all—

Even then, you still can’t help a humiliating whimper as your fingers slide out of your valve. Your fingers are dripping, and you can feel lubricant running down your thighs, all the way to your knees. You can see it smearing on the floor as you try to move yourself over the spike. You wish you could look away.

It takes too long to set your valve against the spike. You almost sob as you finally sink down onto it. It only takes a moment to get as far as the stretch you’d managed with your fingers. And then you keep going. It _burns,_ no preparation, no patience, but you force yourself downward. You are more than familiar with what it feels like when something is about to tear, and you aren’t quite to that point. Even if you were, you don’t know if you’d stop. You force yourself down even further.

Finally, _finally,_ you’re getting something close to the stretch you need. You can’t manage to stay kneeling, you drop forward to hands and knees, your head hanging low as you push down as much as you can manage. It’s so much _easier_ with someone to take care of this part for you, isn’t it? You should be _grateful_ for all the help you’ve been so _graciously_ given in the past—

You can’t even hold onto your anger. You do your best, but it slides away from you. All you can think of is your valve. All you can think of is more, just a little _more—_ You pause, shaking, and lift yourself as far as you can handle. Then drive yourself down _hard._

The spike slams into your ceiling node, with enough pain that it knocks your optics offline for a moment, but nearly enough _sensation_ for what you need. This is what you’ve been chasing, this is what you’ve been so desperate for. You might have torn something. You don’t know. You don’t care. Your legs are shaking so much that it’s hard to move, but you struggle to lift yourself up, then force yourself down onto the spike again.

Your valve is stretched wide. Your valve lips itch and burn with it. You wish you could get just, just a little _more—_ It won’t work with this spike, not when it’s already bottomed out inside of you. But still, despite that, this is— It helps, it isn’t enough, but it’s something, it’s almost enough for you to be able to think again.

And you think _Megatron._ Because what else is there to think. Was this his plan? Maybe he was waiting for you to humiliate yourself this way, then so he could his grand entrance and give you what you so obviously… _want._ There was something else. You’re forgetting something. _Gun._ Your gun. It’s still up on your berth. You could get it if you could sit up, but that would mean— That would mean you’d have to stop fragging yourself against the spike. And you can’t. You _can’t._

Besides, what would the point be? Why would it even _matter_ anymore? You’ve already done this much. Why bother trying to salvage one last little scrap of dignity. It doesn’t matter. It won’t do you any good. You’ve already gone this far, you’ve already put on this much of a pathetic display, there isn’t any point anymore in trying to pretend like you’re above this.

So you might as well lie here and keep desperately fragging yourself. Thinking of Megatron. Fine. You give up. _Fine._ Frag yourself thinking of Megatron. Overload thinking of Megatron. Fine. _You give up._

And that isn’t even the worst of it. The worst is that you _can’t_ overload. You want to. You just want this to be _finished._ But you can’t get yourself over that last little edge, you just need—You don’t know, or you’d _do it._ You need something. It isn’t enough. You want it to be done, you _need_ to overload, but it’s not _enough—_

You try to shove yourself down even harder on the spike. You can’t. It hits against your ceiling node so hard the pain almost overrides everything else, but it’s still not enough. You push one hand back between your legs. It leaves you with only one hand to steady yourself, and your helm is pressed against the floor, but you manage to get a finger on your node. And even that. Even _that_ isn’t enough. You throw yourself into the memory of the last time Megatron had his hands on you, the way that ended, because _you only want this to be over,_ but it’s. Still not enough.

You’re trying, you’re trying so hard to think of anything else you could do. _Anything._ You just. Anything. Anything to have this end. Maybe your processor will overheat and knock you offline. Maybe Megatron will stop watching you humiliate yourself and show up himself to finish the job. What else can you do? You push yourself down on the spike so hard it sends a jolt of pain through your valve. _Not enough._

But you remember— It wasn’t something he always did. Or even often. But there was the last time on Earth, or the other time over his desk on the flagship— You have to send the signal yourself. You’re _choosing_ this is what it means. Even less of an excuse to lie to yourself and say that you _had_ to do this. But you open your chest, sending the plating spiraling outward, exposing your spark.

You can’t stand to take your hand off your node. Even if it’s still not enough, the thought of having _less_ almost makes you sob. You can feel your mouth twist as you take your other hand and move it down to your chest. It leaves your face pressed into the floor. Because you weren’t pathetic enough already. But you can’t do anything else, you _can’t_.

And when you reach in and let your fingers drag across the surface of your spark, you do sob out loud. What does it even matter? Once you’ve humiliated yourself this far, what’s one more humiliation? Your hand on your spark feels like Megatron’s. Because _everything_ against your spark feels like him. But your spark still isn't recovered from what he did to you, it's so tender that this almost enough, just that first touch gets you so close— You drag your fingers against your spark harder, hard enough that it burns in your chest, while you force yourself down on the spike as far as you can manage, pressing a finger into your node—

It finally tips you over the edge. It’s a quiet overload. But it lasts and _lasts._ All you can do is lie there shuddering, with your face pressed against the floor. Even once it finishes, you don’t feel _done._ You’re still expecting more, of course. When would Megatron ever let things end _this_ easily? But it’s enough to pull yourself back under control.

You let your hand drop from your chest first. Take your other hand from your node. Then you can push yourself upright. Your shoulders protest. You’re still aching from— from whatever that was he did to you. He might do it again now, when you’re like this. Something you should be ready for. Defend yourself. You suppose. Somehow.

When you get back to your knees, the false spike shifts in you, and you have to bite back a noise. You take a moment to steel yourself, then carefully, _carefully_ ease it out of you. You’re as delicate as you can be, but your hands are still shaking by the time you’re done. You don’t want to even look at the thing right now. But you ought to. It’s covered with lubricant, yes, yes, what a _surprise._ But there is energon on there too. Not as much as you might have expected. Weighing your options… you can probably avoid telling a medic. Odds are decent self-repair will take care of that eventually. It has before. Usually.

There’s lubricant all over the floor. Transfluid too. A little energon. Your legs are filthy. Your hands are worse. The rest of your frame isn’t doing so well either. You’d forgotten what it felt like to want to peel off your plating so badly you couldn’t ventilate.

You shove the false spike back into its compartment without cleaning it off and just. Shut it away. It’s only going to get more disgusting the longer you leave it. You don’t care. Maybe you’ll get rid of it. Maybe you’ll get rid of the whole room. You look dully at the rest of the mess. You could take care of that. Face Megatron with dignity, whenever he finally decides to make his entrance. Unless he’s been recording you the whole time, you suppose.

And you give up. You move just far enough to sit with your back to the wall, but that’s all you have in you. You can see the gun from here, just poking over the edge of the berth.. It would be so easy to reach up and grab it. You don’t. You just... give up. You don’t know what his game is, but there’s no point anymore. You shift just enough that you can lean sideways against the berth, wedged into the corner between the berth and the wall, and that’s all you have left in you. The lubricant is drying on your frame. But you just sit. And you wait for Megatron.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://spockandawe.tumblr.com/post/159063058696/engraved-so-deeply-in-my-veins-spockandawe-the)


End file.
